


Days and Hours

by Lelek



Series: Days and Hours [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:26:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lelek/pseuds/Lelek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five days in the life of Sherlock Holmes (and John Watson). Or, slow progress is better than none at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days and Hours

**Author's Note:**

> This series was originally posted on LJ and written many months before Series 2.

Sherlock tells himself that it's impossible to determine when or how this started, this _thing_ between them, encompassing his time between cases and holding boredom and ennui at bay. He tells himself that it's simply a long-term experiment, repeated and monitored for the sake of more accurate results. He tells himself that, as a self-confessed high-functioning sociopath, it is categorically impossible for him to care about another person the way it is beginning to seem that he might care about John.

He tells himself these things and sometimes, but only sometimes, he almost believes them.

(Everyone wants to tell the truth just once.)

_Monday goes like this:_

Sherlock is awake and pacing by half-four, bored and irritable and longing for a case that might be able to hold his attention for more than fifteen seconds. It's been almost a month and not even what he's begun thinking of as The Experiment is sufficiently distracting anymore.

When John finally ( _finally_ ) gets up, he's abandoned pacing in favour of scraping at his violin, which is perhaps why John is out of bed at all. John looks out of sorts, as worn down as Sherlock feels, and there is some small measure of comfort to be found in unintentional solidarity.

"Do you really have to play that thing at six in the morning?" John scowls and doesn't even bother going to the kitchen in search of breakfast or tea. They've been out of anything edible for going on three days, stubbornly locked in a silent standoff over what ought to be done about it.

"It helps me think." He puts it down anyway, throwing himself onto the sofa in a manner that ought to be suitably despondent. If he looks miserable enough, but not so miserable that John begins to suspect he's faking, John might be enticed to do something about it. He's generally quite good for that sort of thing.

"Yeah, well maybe you could try having a lie in every once in a while. You know, like a normal person."

Sherlock frowns. "Why would I ever want to do that?"

"Never mind." John sighs and stands. "I'm going back to bed." He looks annoyed and thin-skinned. Easily riled and extremely uncooperative. He's on his way up the stairs before Sherlock can properly respond, so he rolls over instead and pointedly does not sulk.

They don't speak to each other for the rest of the day.

_Tuesday afternoon:_

They're still quiet and sullen and feeling out of joint, but John isn't angry anymore and that at least is a step in the right direction. Sherlock suspects it would be better if he apologised, but he's not entirely sure how and doesn't consider it worth the effort to try.

But John makes him tea and Sherlock leaves his violin in its case, and if that's not a peace gesture he doesn't know what is.

He wants to say: "It's not about what my mouth says. It's _never_ about what my mouth says."

But he's rapidly realising that he doesn't understand John Watson at all, and he doesn't know how he'd react to such a statement. So he drinks his tea and considers his next move and says nothing.

(Not knowing is the worst feeling in the world.)

_Wednesday: 2:36 PM:_

John is smiling today, and even Sherlock is in better spirits, despite the continued lack of a case. They look at each other over a late lunch of bland sandwiches (John eats substantially more than Sherlock) and everything for once feels fine.

When John leans forward casually, touching Sherlock's forearm as he speaks, it's all Sherlock can do not to smile like the person he's never been.

He's still Sherlock Holmes, after all, and there are careful, clearly defined limits to how willing he is to break character in a public setting.

_Thursday comes and goes quietly:_

For all of Wednesday's warmth, Thursday is dismal and grey and brings with it all of Monday's malaise. Sherlock paces restlessly for three quarters of an hour and then settles for lying on the sofa as though dead. John hates it when he does that, but it makes him feel better.

(The veins in his hands pump blue blood and his secrets are written in delicate body language across the lines of tension drawn between them.)

John goes out at five minutes to one and they barely acknowledge each other when he returns.

_Friday:_

Something changes between them as Thursday night becomes Friday morning, a turning point of sorts, and Sherlock deftly conceals his inability to determine what triggered it. He's not used to uncertainty, almost never experienced it before John, and he's decidedly against letting on how deeply it disturbs him.

Exactly twenty-eight seconds after John joins him in the sitting room, he dismisses all trepidation in the face of John's easy smile and considers it a minor triumph when he puts his feet in John's lap and John doesn't mind.

 _Small steps,_ Sherlock tells himself. They're moving towards each other in small steps, and isn't taking great care sometimes the best scientific approach? The results are a long time coming (and Sherlock is hardly the poster child for patience), but he is very sure suddenly that the end will prove worth the waiting.

And when John kisses him, he doesn't even consider pulling away.


End file.
